It was already noon the next day when Hamur saw Bazlow's disfigured corpse.
The corpse had been laboriously dug out by several Frost Howl soldiers from the collapsed rubble and congealed blood-mud, barely piecing together a human form.
If he hadn't been flung away by the boulder, perhaps not even a human form could have been pieced together.
The East Branch Road was also completely changed by this battle; it would be impassable without investing enough time and effort to clear it.
The "Trampler" iron armor, once a symbol of strength and ferocity, was now like scrap metal wantonly trampled by a giant beast, deeply embedded within the shattered body.
Even if someone wanted to separate them, there was no way to do so.
That weather-beaten face, always bearing an untamed expression, was now just a bloody mess, its identity barely discernible from the scattered white beard and remaining tattoos.
The air in the camp was thick with the heavy stench of blood, char, and earth, making it hard to breathe.
Bazlow and the approximately two hundred elite soldiers he brought were the sharpest fangs of this detached army.
Now, those fangs were broken off, and the most ferocious alpha wolf was buried with them in that narrow valley of death.
Over one hundred and fifty of Frost Howl's most valiant warriors were swallowed by rocks and flames before they could even engage in a proper fight.
The news spread through the camp like a plague; soldiers' eyes darted about, their whispers filled with fear and disbelief.
Hamur stood before the corpse, his face as if covered with a layer of ice, showing neither joy nor sorrow.
He squatted down, his knuckles turning white as his rough fingers brushed over the massive dent in Bazlow's chest plate.
He knew Bazlow; that old fellow was an out-and-out war beast—violent, impulsive, bloodthirsty, but also as cunning as an old fox in the snow.
He would charge furiously on the battlefield but would never blindly rush into a trap when he smelled it, especially not in a place that obvious.
This recklessness... was unreasonable.
"High Priest..." a low-ranking officer responsible for collecting the bodies said, his voice trembling, "Lord Bazlow, he... how could he..."
Hamur suddenly looked up, cutting off the officer's words.
"What?" Hamur said in a stern voice, "One Bazlow died, and your spine is broken? Scared out of your wits by a bunch of refugees who only gathered because of the protection of an evil god?!"
He slowly stood up, his gaze sweeping over the soldiers and officers gathered around.
Their dodging eyes fueled the anger in his chest.
"Look at yourselves!" He suddenly raised his voice, "Like a herd of reindeer scattered by snow wolves! Bazlow is dead, but how did he die?! Was he honorably defeated on the battlefield by the Ital'ruk people?!"
He pointed at the shapeless corpse on the ground, his voice carrying an bone-chilling coldness: "No! He fell for the enemy's trick! He was trapped by their most despicable means, exploiting our warriors' bravery and their desire for victory!"
"They dare not face us head-on, only hiding in the shadows, just like their evil god!"
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